


Wolves Without Teeth

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Eskel and Lambert are Eccentric Uncles, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Humor, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kaer Morhen, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Neck Kissing, Sex, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Teasing, Tired Grandpa Vesemir, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24010897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: “Old dog is probably backed up,” Lambert says, shrugging a shoulder. “And a backed-up Geralt is always a sour bastard.”Jaskier prides himself on his fingers not snagging the wrong string, squawking out the wrong chord to show his shock. He does, though, let his head snap to the side to stare the Witcher down. “What?”“The first time I saw you, bard, that neck of yours was black and blue with marks.” Lambert cranes his head, eyes pointedly looking at Jaskier’s neck. “Haven’t seen any since. Everything alright between you two?”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Eskel, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Lambert, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert
Comments: 56
Kudos: 2098
Collections: wiedźmin





	Wolves Without Teeth

The days go by in a nice rhythmic routine. The Witchers wake with the sun, going about their daily chores. Vesemir always has something or other for them to do; a wall to be re-mortared or stables to be mucked out or horses to re-shoe. Jaskier does his own share of the chores – the upkeep of Kaer Morhen sits with those who want to stay within its walls. They look after the keep, and the keep will look after them. But Jaskier’s doesn’t have the Witcher-strength to haul mortal up to the battlements or rearrange the bricks to take the place of the old ones. So he confines himself to the library, sorting through books and tomes and arranging them on to the shelves. He helps with the horses when he can – but Roach is the only one of them who will let him near without kicking out, aiming for his shins.

Training starts at midday. Jaskier’s ears twitch at the sound of metal scraping against metal as swords clash. It should worry him – the fact that the Witchers practise with their actual blades, rather than the sparring swords he’s seen nobles and their sons practise with. But he supposes that learning how to dodge a really sharp blade will make more of a lesson than a dull one.

Even Ciri has fallen into a routine. She wakes with the rest of them, scrambling down to the kitchens to collect her breakfast. Vesemir has tried to get her to come out to the dining hall to eat with the rest of them, and sometimes she’ll go, only to sit there vibrating with how much she wants to just _go_ and start her day. Other times, Jaskier hides a laugh into a bread roll seeing her whip past them on her sprint out to the arena.

“Eager little creature,” Eskel chuckles, finishing off his own breakfast.

Geralt hums. “It’ll go away when her muscles start aching.”

Jaskier digs his elbow into Geralt’s side. It doesn’t even budge the Witcher, but it does earn him a side-ways glance. “I hope you’re not putting her through too much,” Jaskier says lowly. There’s no point. Witchers can hear everything.

Lambert grins. “No one held back with us, bard. If the little princess wants to know how to fight, we’ll teach her how we were taught.”

Vesemir sighs heavily from his seat at the head of the table. “Finish up your breakfast, the lot of you, and get to doing whatever needs doing.”

Most of the walls have been fortified for the winter. Neither man nor wind will make a dent in those walls now that the Witchers are done with them. Some of the stones still need to be corbelled and pointed, but that won’t take much time. Most of their days now are spent training. Jaskier wakes to it; when he fights to open his eyes against bright winter light streaming into their room, he hears the telltale sound of metal clashing and scraping, insults and curses being flung around and echoing throughout the courtyard. Jaskier just buries his face back into his pillow.

The last few tomes need organising within the library. It doesn’t take him that long, putting the books in order by their author’s surnames. The longest, and most tedious, part of it all is trying to read the worn lettering on the spines of the books. Once that’s done, he seeks out Vesemir.

The eldest Witcher regards him for a moment. “Do you have any projects of your own that need doing?” he asks, hauling in a wooden box of root vegetables for dinner.

Jaskier blinks. “Well,” he rubs the back of his neck. His lute has sat by the end of his bed for almost two weeks. When the sun sets and they all lounge full-bellied and warmed by the fire, he’ll play a few songs. His fingers pluck at strings and he hums tunes that he hasn’t put words to yet. Polkas and dancing are for the summer months, when he’s trying to earn coin for food and shelter. Not when he has a pack of wolves slumbering around him. “I suppose I could work on a few songs for spring.”

Vesemir nods. “The winter will be a long one, I think. I don’t want you going without things to do.”

Jaskier has to swallow a laugh. As if Vesemir would let him off on pulling his weight around the keep. If he’s not spending his time in the library, rearranging _Vesemir_ ’s books, he’s helping the eldest Witcher peel and chop vegetables for dinner or taking up post stirring a pot of stew.

But Jaskier offers the man a smile. “Thank you, Vesemir.”

And he has every intention of going back up to his and Geralt’s room. That’s until he hears a very familiar young voice swear so loudly, it actually makes him stop mid-step on the stairs. Jaskier frowns. Outside in the courtyard, he catches sight of Ciri scrambling to her feet, dusting off her breeches with a sharp huff. Her sword – a _wooden_ sword, because over Jaskier’s dead body was he going to let a child wield an actual blade – lies a few feet away from her. Pushing strands of hair back from her face, Ciri collects her sword, and starts running towards her opponent.

Geralt. The Witcher’s feet hardly move as he twists away from Ciri’s bezerker strike, reaching around for her hand, snagging the sword off of her and throwing it across the arena. Ciri stumbles back.

Jaskier cocks his head.

“Training is going well,” a voice comes from his side.

Eskel’s eyes wrinkle with a smile. “She’s got spirit, I’ll give her that,” he says, looking back out on to the arena where Geralt blocks another one of Ciri’s strikes with ease. “So much rage in such a tiny body.”

“Why is she getting angry?” Jaskier asks, stepping out from the keep. Even though winter is trudging in, the sun still manages to break through the clouds. Even with the chilly breeze blowing through the keep’s grounds, the sun offers some warmth.

Eskel chuckles. “She’s getting _frustrated_. She has a lot of things to learn; and one of them is keeping your emotions in check. You start getting emotional in a fight, and it’s not going to end well for you.”

If Geralt had a sword, if Geralt were an enemy, Ciri would have had her throat cut long ago. It’s been years since he took up lessons with a swordmaster – at his father’s request, mind – and even he knows that composure is everything. Watching her now, Jaskier grimaces at every time Ciri staggers back up, fetches her sword, and runs back towards Geralt – hoping to catch him in the knee or the side.

“So,” Jaskier drawls, “are any of you going to offer some advice? Or are you just content to watch her get thrown to the ground over and over again?”

“She’ll get it.” Eskel folds his arms over his chest and relaxes back against the wall of the keep.

It’s not the end of it. Geralt is gentle with her in practise, even if it doesn’t look that way; but Jaskier still watches a tired girl stumble back into the keep after their days of training. He watches her fall asleep by the hearth when their bellies are full from dinner, not even having the energy to climb back upstairs to her own room. Geralt is always the one to scoop her up against his chest, carrying her to her room.

It isn’t long until he feels his bones starting to wane. When a yawn escapes him, Geralt noses against the shell of his ear. “Tired?” the chest behind his back rumbles.

Jaskier hums. He pats Geralt’s thigh and struggles to his feet. Having a full stomach and a hearth and Witcher keeping him warm is everything he could have asked for out of this winter, and more. He picks up a blanket from the arm of the couch, shrugging it around his shoulders to stave off the chill that will be waiting for him in the hallways outside. “Are you coming?” Jaskier asks, noticing that the Witcher hasn’t budged.

Geralt waves his hand. “I’ll join you in a bit,” he says.

Something churns in his stomach, but Jaskier just shrugs it off. He leans down and catches Geralt’s lips in a chaste kiss. It’s mostly short pecks these days, especially if a gaggle of Witchers are about. Before Lambert can make a sort of comment, Jaskier pulls away. “Alright,” he sighs, “goodnight.”

The others send their _goodnight_ s after him as he steps out into the hallway. Even with the keep sitting on a maze of hot springs, the halls of the keep are always freezing. He thought about getting some tapestries to hang on the walls, or rugs to line the cobblestone floors, in an effort to keep some heat in the damn castle. Just because the Witchers aren’t bothered by a bit of chill doesn’t mean shit to him. He bundles his make-shift cloak around his shoulders and wanders up the winding stairs to his room – _Geralt_ ’s room. It’s been the Witcher’s since he passed the trials. Even though they’ve spent years together out on the Path, and weeks within the keep as Geralt’s own guest, his hand still hesitates on the handle to the door.

It doesn’t feel like a space he should be in. This is Geralt’s sanctuary. But the Witcher sleeps peacefully beside him, lowering every wall he builds for himself when he’s awake.

He steps inside. The hearth is already lighting, with a stack of wooden blocks nearby to keep it fed for the night. With sleep already pulling at him, the fire will be Geralt’s problem. He pads over to their bed, tossing his blanket down on to his side. It’s still a notion that makes him pause – he has a side to this bed. Jaskier pulls back the blankets, fluffing the pillows. It’s as much as he can do before his eyes start to sting with how tired he is. He strips off most of his clothes, leaving his smallclothes on. The clothes are flung to some corner of the room.

As soon as he slips beneath the blankets, settling on the comfortable mattress and plush pillow, sleep tackles him under.

* * *

Every morning is the same. Streaks of light hit his eyes. Blinking awake, Jaskier buries his face into his pillow and tries to ignore the damn sun, or the fact that one of them should have pulled the curtains across last night. Jaskier reaches out with an arm. He’s met with cold sheets, already done up for the day. Grabbing blindly for Geralt’s pillow, Jaskier hauls it over to his side of the bed, curling around it.

The library’s books are done, and from the sounds of fighting going on outside, he’s sure that the Witchers have already had their breakfast. With nothing much to do, Jaskier lets the familiar smell of Geralt wrap around him. He never could place what the Witcher smelt like; but spending time in Kaer Morhen just told him that the Witcher smelt like the keep; the springs that the castle sits on top of, the crisp winter breeze that blows through, carrying faint scents of wildflowers. He smells like _home_.

Some time passes before he feels like he probably should get up. Removing himself from his warm nest is a struggle, but he finds his clothes quickly and pulls them on before any draft can prickle his skin. Swords brandishing against each other shatter through the air. Jaskier tries not to smile at a very loud _fuck!_ screamed out by Eskel.

Catching his lute by its neck, he gathers a small notebook and a quill and inkwell, and wanders down to the courtyard. There’s some inspiration to be had from watching three wolves fight amongst each other – even if it’s for training. He heads for the nearby forge. It’s always well fed with coals and wood, and if he’s going to be spending some time outside, he wants to curl up somewhere warm.

The arena isn’t well mapped out. There hasn’t been a need for it in years, Geralt told him. But the Witchers still keep to a square, unconsciously knowing when they’ve stepped out of bounds. Jaskier doesn’t pay them much mind as he heads for the forge. Metal clashing and grunts and swears have been in his ears since he first stepped foot inside the keep for the winter. He’s learned to drown all of it out.

A body stumbling to the ground gets his attention though. Jaskier steps into the forge and looks out on to the arena. Eskel staggers back to his feet, the blade of his sword resting against his arm, ready for a strike. Jaskier sets his things down. He sits by the forge, taking his lute on to his knee and strumming a few chords.

Neither of the men in the arena pay him much mind.

There’s something off about Geralt, Jaskier notices. His movements are not heavy, but they're more reckless. He lunges after Eskel with a slightly snarled lip, cursing under his breath when his brother either lands a hit against his shoulder or knocks his blade out of his hand.

A sound escapes from Jaskier’s throat.

“He’s getting sloppy,” a voice comes from the other side of the forge. Sitting with his back against the flames is Lambert, armour already covered in a fine dusting of grime. His blade sits beside him. Lambert keeps his eyes on his brothers fighting. “Though, it’s an easy fix.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “Fix what?”

A slow smirk starts to spread across Lambert’s lip. “Old dog is probably backed up,” Lambert says, shrugging a shoulder. “And a backed-up Geralt is always a sour bastard.”

Jaskier prides himself on his fingers not snagging the wrong string, squawking out the wrong chord to show his shock. He does, though, let his head snap to the side to stare the Witcher down. “What?”

“The first time I saw you, bard, that neck of yours was black and blue with marks.” Lambert cranes his head, eyes pointedly looking at Jaskier’s neck. “Haven’t seen any since. Everything alright between you two?”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open. For the first time in a long time, quite possibly in his life, he actually can’t say anything. No words come out of him. When he manages to find something, it’s only when Lambert’s grin turns into something teasing. “You’re a right prick, do you know that Lambert?”

“I’ve been informed,” Lambert barks a laugh. The sound catches Eskel’s ear. When the Witcher turns to see what’s happening, Geralt tosses his sword to the side and tackles Eskel to the ground, pinning the Witcher down by sitting on his hips and keeping his hands by his head.

“Oh, fuck off Geralt!” Eskel snarls.

* * *

Lambert is a prick. Geralt told him as much summers ago, when he first asked about the Witcher’s brothers. _He’s an...Well, he’s an acquired taste_ , were Geralt’s exact words. And Jaskier prides himself with getting along with everyone. He’s forced his friendship on enough people, Geralt included, to be able to smile through most interactions. But Lambert is posing a challenge. He does like the Witcher. He’s great for getting stories of a young, curly-haired and chubby-faced Geralt out of: blackmail that Jaskier will hold over his Witcher’s head for years to come. But even Jaskier can have his patience tested.

He knows Lambert earned a clipped ear the second he spots the Witcher stepping into the dining hall while he’s setting the table. Lambert skulks over, rubbing the left side of his head. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” he says, though, Jaskier notices, they aren’t his words. Lambert glowers down at his own boots, but keeps going. “It wasn’t an appropriate thing to say to you.”

Jaskier lets the words sit with him for a moment. “Thank you Eskel,” Jaskier says a bit too loudly, hoping that the Witcher in the hall outside will hear him. He tries not to smile at Lambert muttering something under his breath before falling to his usual spot at the table.

When the others step into the dining hall, Jaskier smiles brightly when he spots Ciri rushing to his side. “I hit the mark today,” she whispers to him, hugging him around the waist. “I got my arrow in the centre.”

Jaskier sets down the last of the cutlery and hugs her tightly. “Good!” he says. “You’ll be a Witcher in no time.”

Ciri beams.

* * *

There’s something different about this morning.

Jaskier wakes up like usual, throwing an arm over his eyes to shield himself from the light coming in. Birds are already singing, chirping happily outside on the balcony’s ledge. But when he moves, wanting to bury himself underneath the sheets, he notices something.

The other side of the bed is still warm.

There’s a very familiar chest pressed to his back, and an arm curled around his middle, keeping him pinned.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder. Geralt is there, half of his face buried into his pillow. His hair is splayed out over the other side of his face. Jaskier’s fingers itch to brush it away. His neck pains from craning it around, so he moves. As gently as he can, he turns in Geralt’s hold, pillowing his head on to one of his arms so that he can watch as the Witcher snuffles and moves closer.

Geralt presses his face into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in a lungful of scent before relaxing back into the bed. Jaskier brushes his fingertips along any stretch of bare skin he can find. He pulls Geralt’s hair back from the Witcher’s face, and starts on a journey down along the length of his neck and shoulder. He’s careful to avoid any old scars. Some of them are more sensitive than others.

When it seems like Geralt is wading towards waking, Jaskier hums. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news,” he says softly, “but aren’t you meant to be up and training with Ciri?”

A long sigh leaves Geralt. “Eskel has taken her out to one of the riding paths around the keep,” he says into Jaskier’s neck. His arm tightens around the bard’s body, just holding him close.

Jaskier frowns slightly, setting his chin on the crown of Geralt’s head. “How do you know that?”

There’s a small pause between them. Jaskier thinks for a moment that Geralt might have fallen back asleep, but the Witcher’s nose runs along the column of his neck. “Because he told me that he would do it.”

“When?”

“Yesterday,” Geralt grunts, “after Lambert said something about me being _backed up_.”

Heat blooms across Jaskier’s cheeks. He clicks his tongue. “Gods, I’d have thrown him from the parapets if I had the chance.”

At that, the Witcher chuckles. “I’d like to see you try, little lark.” Lips brush the apple of Jaskier’s throat, bare touches that already have a shiver running up the length of Jaskier’s spine. He buries his nose into Geralt hair, scenting the Witcher. He smells of the springs below them and the vials of oils and lotions that he’s stolen from Jaskier over the past few years. He smells familiar. Warmth coils around his bones and muscles and settles into his blood.

“We haven’t had much time to ourselves since getting here, I know that,” Geralt hums.

“Oh, hush. You know that doesn’t bother me. It’s not like you’ve been avoiding me of your own accord. And having you here is enough,” Jaskier clicks his tongue, curling an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. The thought of getting up at some point chills his veins. The rest of the keep and those in it slips away as familiar fingers begin to draw light patterns along the small of his back. Jaskier shifts his hips.

Seasons have gone by and with every year that passes them, they know each other more and more. Jaskier knows that carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair, tugging on the strands near the back of his head, will have the Witcher melting against him. Geralt knows that Jaskier’s weakest point is the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Light lips pressed there will have him lost.

The sleep mostly, if not totally, bare. One of his favourite things in the world is waking to Geralt’s skin against his own, warmth already spreading through him like wildfire. Even when the winds turn, he still prefers curling around a Witcher for warmth.

And it makes early morning tumbles easier if they’re not fumbling with shirts and sleep pants.

Framing Geralt’s face with his hands, he pulls the Witcher down for a kiss. One that’s longer and deeper than any they’ll share outside of the room. Lambert makes his comments – all in jest, of course, but Jaskier’s ears still burn when he hears the younger Witcher leering at them. Eskel just rolls his eyes, muttering something or other about how annoying a contented Geralt could be. And the thought of Vesemir seeing them be close just sits wrong with him. He wouldn’t subject the poor elder to it. It would probably cause his heart to stutter to a stop.

He’s mindful that the balcony door is slightly ajar. He’s mindful that Witchers are about, and even though they’re probably outside or somewhere else entirely, he swallows every sound that threatens to climb out of his throat. Because if he can hear Lambert sharpening his swords down by the forge, he’s sure that Lambert will have no problem hearing him moaning. And he will _not_ have Lambert crowing over him and any marks Geralt might leave at their next meal together.

Geralt chuckles against Jaskier’s lips. “You know I like your sounds,” he hums, “my songbird.” And Geralt is very good at wringing sounds out of him. Every scrape of teeth against his skin, on his neck and shoulder and chest, earns gasps and moans.

Jaskier can return the favour. Dragging nails across the expanse of Geralt’s back and shoulders, or hooking his legs around the Witcher’s waist and grinding their hips together – Jaskier knows how to pull noise out of his normally quiet Witcher.

Their bodies know each other. With every night spent together, more and more of themselves is peeled back, bare to the other. It’s all so familiar. The scent of the oil that’s always an arm’s reach away. How it coats the roof of Jaskier’s mouth, how Geralt makes sure to warm it with his fingers before touching Jaskier. How the weight of the other man feels on top of him; but not once does he ever feel pinned down. If he caught Geralt at the right moment, turning his hips in a certain way, he could have the Witcher beneath him as easy as anything.

Jaskier’s head falls back against the pillows as Geralt’s finger traces his hole. Golden eyes watch intently as he slips one finger in; humming when there’s no resistance at all.

A groan wrenches out of Jaskier’s throat. His breath catches when the pad of Geralt’s finger skims the spot inside of him.

When Geralt slips into him, he buries his grunt into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. The bard’s hands go to his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there as his legs part and their hips join. It will always feel like their first time in that tavern all those summers ago. Those who were before Geralt couldn’t pull sounds out of him like the Witcher can. They couldn’t light his skin on fire but prickle it with gooseflesh at the same time.

Jaskier moves his legs, hooking his heels on to the small of Geralt’s back. “Come on, Witcher,” he rasps, “you have me all to yourself now.”

Geralt’s hips snap forward. Bowed over the bard, covering his body with his own, Geralt braces his arms on either side of Jaskier’s head and fucks into him. And it must have been a while since they last slept together, or else something else is happening, because Jaskier can already feel his core winding tighter within him. His cock rubs against Geralt’s stomach – and it’s too much. His grip on the Witcher’s shoulders tightens. “I won’t, _fuck_ , I won’t last-” he gasps at a well-aimed thrust straight into him.

Geralt swears under his breath. “It’s alright,” he breathes. Something glints in his eyes. “This won’t be the first time you’ll come this morning, songbird.”

And it sets Jaskier’s blood on fire. His Witcher isn’t good with words generally, but he’s learned that certain words, rasped and growled into the shell of his ear, pulls the right kind of reaction from him. So his legs tighten around Geralt, helping him snap his hips harder and harder until Jaskier feels that coil starting to wind up.

When it snaps, Jaskier almost curls in on himself. He hugs Geralt close, burying a cry into the Witcher’s shoulder.

Geralt keeps moving. It’s on the right side of being too much, thrums of over-sensitivity sparking his nerves and wrenching groans out of him. When Geralt follows him over, Jaskier tilts his head back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “Gods above,” he sighs, a slow smile curling along his lip.

Geralt’s fingers comb through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “Are you alright?” he burrs, gentling the ridge of Jaskier’s cheekbone with the back of his finger.

Jaskier laughs. It’s an airy and light thing. His chest is still heaving, trying to catch his breath. “I’m more than alright, my dear.” When his legs fall to the sides, he winces slightly at the soft thrum of an ache running up through his spine.

Geralt catches the expression. “We can leave it at that,” he says suddenly, holding himself up above Jaskier. “If you’re too sore, we can—”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier sighs a long breath, “love of my life, bane of my soul. I haven’t had you in me for nearly two weeks. If you think that I’m throwing in the towel after one round then I’m just appalled and insulted.”

A soft smile spreads across Geralt’s face, one complete with kind eyes – something that only Jaskier and their young charge seems to see. He breathes out a short laugh. “Good,” he says, falling to Jaskier’s side, Gathering the bard into his arms, they both settle down against the bed. Sounds still float up from the courtyard outside. The forge’s billows huff and wheeze. Lambert must be smithing something. The wind has picked up slightly, whistling through the small gap in the balcony doors. Jaskier’s eyes slip shut. The sounds of the keep are starting to be familiar to him now; even after only being here for a few weeks.

Geralt hums by his side, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I think I know where Eskel took Ciri,” the words rumble out of him. “It’s one of the longer treks. They won’t be back for hours. We have all the time in the world.”

Warmth blooms in Jaskier’s centre. He turns his head to the side, resting his temple against Geralt’s. Shared breath sits between them. “Remind me to thank him,” Jaskier mumbles, slipping off into a light sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt of Rivia Uses His Brothers As Babysitters Just So He Can Have Morning Sex With His Bard Boyfriend, send tweet. 
> 
> tumblrs:  
> yourqueenforayear (terrible humour and antics) || agoodgoddamnshot (writings)
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly welcomed. 
> 
> Stay safe x


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